Before the Band
by the empress of lala land
Summary: The story of how Toki and Skwisgaar met, how they interacted, and how they lived before Dethklok was formed. Rated T for child abuse, neglect, and perhaps some kissing in later chapters. Ultimately a S/T but not for a while. Written by SEES.
1. Lillehammer

Before the Band

By: SEES

Edited by: Keru and SEES

Chapter One

It begins with a mother. One who, after so many partners, had an accident and ended up with a son . This didn't stop her from continuing her current lifestyle but it did drain a bit of money- enough money that the family (if it could be called that) was made to leave Eda to Lillehammer, where the cost of living was much less. Of course, it was a smaller town, and it meant taking her child far away from his friends. This would have been a problem if he had any friends.

Skwisgaar was only unhappy with the situation because he had to leave the budding new band that had been forming at school. He was by far the best guitarist they knew, but they didn't know why. He poured all his anger, his frustration, his hate and his (WILL TO DOMINATE ALL LIFE ON MIDDLE EARTH sorry sorry it sounds like that) unhappiness into his guitar, the instrument wailing the sounds his body couldn't make. It kept him from going insane, to put it simply. She didn't even know the name of the school he went to.

"Come on, hurry up. I don't have all day and the truck is going to be here any minute." The woman was yelling into the tiny apartment, where a young, 14-year-old man gathered his meager belongings. It wasn't much- a small duffel bag, containing his clothing and toothbrush, a couple of guitar picks, and a small plastic tuner. It looked more like an overnight bag, rather than one's worldly belongings.

"I'm coming," he called, tucking unkempt blond bangs behind his ear. His clothing was not the most important thing, and definitely what he was leaving alone. What he was not leaving alone was the case that held his most prized item- his guitar. The MetAlien-model Behringer was all black, as even the pick guard was black, and when he felt like taking care of it, he would polish the body until it shone. He carried it in its case, over one shoulder and carried the corresponding amp- Behringer as well- out the door, placing it far away from the wedge heels his mother was wearing.

"I said, hurry! Look, they're pulling up! Get your shit, it's going in first." Servetta Swigelf blew out a long gust of smoke, before leaning over the railing. Her shirt was so low-cut that when she leaned onto the metal the driver could probably see her skirt through the space it left. She pressed one arm against her rather sizeable breasts, which in turn pushed her cleavage to impossible limits. Her son rolled his eyes and turned to get his clothing, silently ashamed of his mother's actions. She would probably invite one or all of them for dinner and have a celebratory fuck for moving to Lillehammer.

Of course, she didn't help, only made eyes at the movers. Her child, Skwisgaar, helped them to avoid a drunken shouting match in the next few days. One actually talked to him other than 'hey you, come get this,' and he thought perhaps that would be the one he would have to drown out that night. He had been unusually inquisitive, asking all sorts of questions about his grade and age.

However, this did nothing but irritate the boy. He knew what he looked like- a typical Swedish boy, in the middle of one of his growing spurts. Wavy blond hair that reached just past his shoulders and a height that most eighteen-year-olds envied, long, thin limbs coupled with defined cheekbones and a high forehead. He was in the seventh grade (of course, this man was an idiot and needed things spelled out for him) and an uncaring attitude that put most people off. This man, however, was not to be deterred, and continued to ask. Finally, he was reduced to small grunts and shakes of his head.

The young man opted to sit in the storage rather than the cab, his guitar resting between his legs. The inquisitive man offered to let him sit in the cab, but he only shook his head, grip tightening on the strap. There was no way he was letting his most prized possession roll around in the back of a moving truck.

After the rather long and bruising ride, Skwisgaar stepped out of the truck and did everything he had just an hour and a half ago but backwards, before retreating to his newly designated room and shutting the door, hoping the walls were thicker here than their last apartment.

Setting the case on his bed, he slowly unzipped it, the sound having a seemingly holy quality. With a certain reverence, he lifted the six-stringed guitar and ran his callused fingertips over the neck and body, careful not to smudge it. The strings sung softly, tingling the ends of his fingers as he passed over them, almost begging to be played. He gripped it softly, slinging the strap over his head and setting it in the familiar place against his ribcage and stomach, his hands falling onto the correct strings by way of habit. It took him a moment to tear his fingers away, a feeling of regret filling him for a moment. He reached up to get his cable, moving as quickly as he could so he could play. The amplifier was plugged into the wall and the cable into both the guitar and amp, and moved to sit on his bed. He placed himself against the wall, before closing his eyes-

and began to play. This was not something to be interrupted, it was something to be watched and understood. He did not need to look to pour his soul into the strings, to make the Behringer cry out as he could not. His fingers moved instinctually, not really playing a rhythm but a song instead, something that spoke volumes but didn't actually say anything. He was high above this world, on another planet where things like words and thoughts didn't exist, only this music, only these sounds-

until his mother banged on the door and told him to keep it down, to turn off the amplifier or she was going to come in there and smash it herself.

After an unrestful night, Skwisgaar dragged himself out of bed at what he considered to be the as crack of dawn to find the school and get himself registered. The two reasons that he even went were his mother and the law. He would be a truant if he didn't attend school while he was under the age of sixteen, and it gave him something to do for eight hours while he was away from his mother. Even though she had a job, she found ways to be home at all hours of the day, and school was an escape from her annoyances.

Skwisgaar found his way to the school easily enough, but he was most definitely not pleased at the distance he would have to walk every day. It was well over four miles and there was no way in hell he was asking for a ride from anyone, least of all his mother. Entering the school, he asked for registration papers and was stared at for a moment by the secretary, before she understood, and handed them to him, looking used to this procedure. He took the pen and sat down at the table, filling in his name, his mother's name, place of residence, the door to the office opening so quietly he barely noticed. The blond boy looked up to see a small child, looking like he was in maybe kindergarten or first grade, closing the door as softly as possible, before stepping forward, and Skwisgaar could see why he came in. His right knee was bleeding profusely, an old scab seeming to have been ripped open, perhaps by a fall. Blood was streaming openly but unlike a lot of little kids, he seemed unfazed by the warm liquid that was soaking into his sock. He hadn't even teared up. He stood and waited until the receptionist noticed him, staring at her with unblinking eyes, cold, dead things that had a sad sort of mystery to them. He did not see them, though, as the dirty hair covered his face. Once she felt the stare and looked up, she didn't say anything, only pointed behind herself at what was assumed to be the nurses station. Skwisgaar watched between checking boxes, ultimately uncaring, and barely looking up in time to see that the kid left, some of the blood cleaned off and a sloppily applied gauze patch over his knee. It seemed they didn't do anything about the sock, and it was dyed an ugly red and turning brown with the dried blood.

It didn't take long to fill out all the information- he had memorized all the information about his family (the term applied loosely) long ago- and turn it in, only to be informed that he would start school the next day. The woman typed up a schedule, asking what his classes were at his old school before printing it off and handing it to him, before falling back into her silent state and stared at her computer, ignoring him. He took this as his cue to leave, wandering around with his guitar on his back until it seemed like the school would be over, before finding a café to sit and play his un-amplified guitar. Today it was mostly strumming, a smooth tune that was an unbroken trill of notes moving up and down the scales, until the store closed and kicked him out. Then, it was a long walk back to the apartment and more trying to block out those all-too-familiar sounds of his mother and the new ones of a different man.


	2. I Spy

**Before the Band**

**By: SEES**

**Edited by: Keru and SEES**

**Chapter Two**

**It was strange how when one had a routine, time passed with a seemingly liquid quality. It flowed and swayed in a way that months seemed to be days, the 24-hour-segments melding into one another into something that showed on a person's face. It was a tired sort of haggardness, and you could recognize it on Skwisgaar's face after a few months of school. **

**First of all, he **_**hated**_** school. (Me too, Skwis! Me too! XP) He saw no point past the primaries, as almost any job that might take him needed nothing more than after fifth grade, and he knew- the local library where he had last lived had Internet, and he checked. He didn't want to do anything besides get away from his mother- nothing that required one of those fancy four-to-six- year degrees.**

**Secondly, he had learned that wherever you go, the school is the same. Some detached teachers, some decent ones, some overenthusiastic… The list could go on forever, but all he got for his were the boring and uncaring, and one who was semi-interesting. The routine- history, math, science, elective (music, of course), literature- was something that was now driven into his school, now that it was nearing the end of November. **

**The only small break in the monotony that he found was that kid. The one he had glanced at in the office, the one with the bleeding knee and hair that needed a good washing. He saw him in the halls all the time, but at the same time, it seemed as though he was the only one who did. He was absolutely invisible to everyone else, only appearing when bumped, often being the one who fell on the floor. Even then, no one did anything to help him up, and Skwisgaar was no exception. The kid got up fine on his own, anyway. He was also a small child, and one could see that he was shorter and skinnier than most of the people- most of the girls, even- in his class, when they stood in the line for lunch.**

**He never looked good, either. He seemed sick from what he could see of his face- he kept those greasy strands over his eyes at all times- and either very clumsy or just stupid. He seemed to wear the same thing every day, and even though it was a bit different with the shorts, or a different colored shirt, or different mismatched socks (they were never matching), but it was always grimy, like he pulled it off the floor because he had nothing else to wear. It seemed there was an invisible barrier around him, and people gave him a wide berth. It made sense to the Swedish boy as well- who would want to get close someone who let himself get that dirty and not do anything about it? Skwisgaar knew for a fact that he would **_**never **_**let his own body get that filthy. He was also always injured, but a little past the normal extent. Scraped knees and elbows and bruises absolutely **_**everywhere**_**, in the oddest places as well. His shins and calves and elbows and forearms seemed to be a myriad of ugly purples and sickly green, along with the yellow of healing.**

**In short, this kid- of whom he could never see anything except perhaps his nose and chin- was a perpetually dirty, pathetic and tiny child who didn't speak.**

**Quite honestly, it was easy to guess that perhaps his parents were a bit neglecting towards him. You only had to look at the kid to know. But he never saw any teachers jump at the chance to help him off the floor and such- the whole school had a distinct and sickening attitude of detachment and it was demonstrated by his first day in the office. In truth, Skwisgaar wasn't about to go do charity work, either. He had his own problem to deal with. Many people, including the budding band members in Eda, didn't have much of an idea of what his home life was like. Sure, Servetta had a job, but it was not during school hours most of the time, and it fell to him to get himself out of bed, pack his lunch if there was something other than booze in the fridge, walk to school, get good enough grades to go to the next mandatory level, keep his guitar and money safe, play said guitar, gather fund money, and get and stay away from **_**her**_**. **

**He was not planning to continue to live with his mother, and he was going to leave at any cost. He sincerely doubted whether she would notice or care, and all he wanted was to get to a better place. Maybe somewhere where it wasn't so cold. He was a skinny person by nature, inheriting his mother's good looks and height, but he couldn't keep body heat for the life of him. (I feel ya, Skwisgaar.) Maybe he would even go to somewhere like the fabled New York, New York in America.**

**But, all this had to be in the future. He was only fourteen, nowhere near old enough to flee- where to, he didn't know yet. He didn't have enough money… the problems seemed endless.**

**However, one could only focus on a so many things at a time. The kid became a momentary distraction, kind of like an I Spy game. Where would he have bruises today? Did that cut on his arm heal, or only get bigger? Have the scrapes on his knees finally disappeared? Was that gash on his calf going to scar or smooth over? Skwisgaar let his eyes analyze the injuries quickly, never one to stare very long, and believed for the longest time that the child didn't notice. After all, he was always staring at his ripped-up canvas sneakers. How could he?**

**Little did the older boy know, his glances were noticed. The child had seen him that one day, and although he was not particularly interested or caring about why he was looking, he felt it. No one else saw him. This person was also very, very tall to the little Norwegian, and had hair that seemed to be too long. Were they a boy or a girl? It was a shameful sort of curiosity, to try to determine this person's gender, this person who stared at him for a little bit like his teachers used to.**

**Still, it wasn't like they were going to **_**talk**_** to each other. Why the hell would they even want to?**


	3. Contact

**Before the Band**

**By: SEES**

**Edited by: Keru and SEES**

**Chapter Three**

**November was coming to an end, but really all that meant was that the weather was going to get even colder. For Skwisgaar, this meant at least two heavy coats and a scarf, and potentially a hat or gloves of some sort. His warmest boots were also brought out and got their season's wear very quickly. His mother often laughed at him as he went out the door if she was awake at that hour for some ungodly reason, calling after him that he was Swedish and should be able to stand the cold.**

**Of course, all these layers got to be quite annoying once he got in the building. It seemed that only half the place actually got heated, and he was forever peeling off one coat only to put it back on, or perhaps pull his scarf over his mouth and nose and look like a terrorist. Hands were generally shoved into pockets but if there were gloves in there then that quickly became too much in that small space. **

**The worst part, however, was the walk to and from the goddamn school. Any exposed skin was instantly frozen and the winds cut through his precautions like they were nothing, causing his teeth to chatter and his vision to blur with reflex tears. But all this wasn't his fault, really- he had absolutely no fat on his body, it having all worn off by walking and wandering, not to mention that what he fed himself ultimately amounted to crap.**

**It was leaving the school one of these bitterly freezing days that Skwisgaar made his first, shall we say, contact. Two boys, a grade or two above him were busy shoving around the dirty little kid, their laughs and jeers drifting through to the cold air. More than a couple times he had fallen over quite apparently, but he kept standing back up at their insistence. They weren't being very sneaky about it, either. In fact, they were beating him up right next to the main entrance, cornering him by the steps and wall. Well, nobody was going to care.**

**And in all honesty, Skwisgaar didn't care. He wasn't going to risk his ass- those boys were big and older as well- for some kid he didn't even know, and especially one who didn't know how to defend himself. How was the kid ever going to learn if he couldn't even stand up for himself?**

**Taking a few of the stone steps down, he barely spared the scene a glance, but that was his mistake. The kid had noticed him coming out of the door and looked up, which led to the Swedish boy to catch sight of his eyes for the first time.**

**Those weren't just any eyes- they were the coldest, deadest eyes he had ever seen in his entire life. He knew what they looked like, too- he had worn them once himself. He looked in the mirror every day and a ugly zombie stared back, something that looked nothing like him now. **

**These eyes were much worse than his had ever been. His were ice and still held a bit of it, but these ones were darker, his soul submerged in murky waters that had closed over. And although he really didn't want to do it, Skwisgaar lifted his backpack from where it had been hanging by his side and shouldered it, sighing as he took the last several steps down. The kid had lowered his head again, probably thinking that the seventh-grader wasn't going to stop.**

**Skwisgaar planted one booted foot in the fatter of the two bullies' lower back, sending him to his hands and knees. They turned to look and came upon a fearsome sight. He had **_**perfected**_** the glare that was usually directed to his mother's back and turned this full force on these stupid boys, who seemed to quail in fear.**

**And for good reason, too. He might be skinny, but he was taller and better-looking. One could only guess at the musculature beneath the layers of clothing, and there had been plenty of force behind that kick.**

"**I didn't realize beating up first graders was what all the cool kids did these days," he said, tossing his hair out of his face. He took a step forward, and wouldn't you know it- the cowards actually turned and ran, pushing past him and hitting his shoulder. He did not pay them any attention, only looked down at the kid he had just, well… saved. He really hadn't wanted to.**

**So he didn't help him off the frozen ground, only watched uncomfortably. If they had done something to his leg then he would have to probably have to take him to the nurse's or something, not that **_**that**_** would have done much, considering what he had seen his first day there. Once the kid was on his feet (wobbling, but he'd get over it) he felt it was fine to turn and leave.**

**Really, he had expected at least a "thank you" for his efforts. He had just put his own body in harm's way for this kid, and got nothing. But once again, he was stopped, but for a completely different reason this time.**

**His teeth were clacking together, chattering so loudly that it seemed he didn't have any control over it. It took a moment to realize that there was actual **_**sound**_** coming from his mouth, and it wasn't just those pearly whites making noise.**

**It had taken him a full fifteen seconds to say "Thanks."**

**What was the word? Pitiful? But Skwisgaar didn't feel any pity- only exasperation. What idiot would wear nothing but knee-length shorts and a T-shirt in this weather? He stared at the kid and the kid stared back, his mouth bloody and an eye beginning to swell. A shiver ran through the smaller body and he rolled his eyes, stepping forward. It seemed like the kid moved involuntarily against the wall and his arms, which had already been crossed for warmth, raised a bit as to protect his already injured face. **

**Skwisgaar's backpack thumped to the ground, making the brunette jump. Once more a sigh came as he pulled off his outer jacket, a poly-fleece blend that kept heat in well. With as immobile as the kid seemed, it was now his job to drape the coat over his shoulders, unable to keep a bit of disgust from showing on his face. The kid was **_**dirty**_**, all covered in blood and dirt and grit and who-knows-what… But he was shaking so badly it looked like he was having an epileptic seizure. Those tremors lessened a bit, but the look of incredulity he was getting was more than a little creepy. Had he never borrowed anything from anyone before?**

"**I'm only letting you borrow this, so bring it back, okay? Got it?" **

**No acknowledgement. This was getting nowhere fast. A frown appeared on his face and his shifted his weight, extremely uncomfortable. **

"**Okay, what's your name?" He saw wet lips move but he didn't hear anything, and he could **_**feel**_** his temper bubbling up at the lack of cooperation he was getting.**

"**What?" The Swedish boy had to lean down and cup a hand around his ear to hear the repeated word, and he barely even caught it that time.**

"**Toki." Skwisgaar straightened and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and out of his face, uncertainty reigning supreme. Was it really a good idea to lend his coat to this kid? He might not even get it back. Well, that was why he got the kid's name. He could report theft or some shit and get it back like that.**

"**Okay, Toki," (a slight grimace at the name) "make sure to wear your own coat so I can get mine back." With that he felt like he could finally leave, because the kid didn't seem retarded- only really quiet. So he turned picked up his backpack and turned on his heel to leave, his footsteps crunching on the gravel.**

**The newly warmed Toki watched him go, before he began to actually put on the coat. It made for a hilarious sight once he did, too- the sleeves twice the length of his hands and then some, and the bottom of it coming down to his mid-thighs. It was much to big because although Skwisgaar might be skinny, he was long and therefore required something much bigger. But that was all he was willing to offer, and that was all he was going to get.**


	4. Keep the Damn Coat

**Before the Band**

**By: SEES**

**Edited by: Keru and SEES**

**Chapter Four**

**To put it simply, Skwisgaar had a hellish weekend. He had not remembered that it was Friday and had spent his weekend inside his cold house, putting up with his mother.**

**Funny how they didn't have heat, but they had cable. **

**So he had sat, shivering, trying to play his Behringer in his room with numb fingers, ensconced in relatively thin blankets. He had to put his only pair of gloves on to try to immerse himself in his world away from **_**her**_**, but it couldn't work. His fingers were already muted without his amplifier, and he could barely make any sound with those on.**

**Hell, it was beginning to sound like he played bass.**

**Also, the gloves got daily use now that the weather had turned, and plucking at the guitar strings was not good for them. He had worn holes in the tips, where he needed the coverage the most. His circulation had never been good, but this was not good.**

**So, needless to say, he was quite ready to get his coat back. It was the only thing that had kept him in the house the **_**entire fucking weekend, **_**because he would be unable to stand the cold if stepped outside for longer than his walk to school, and if he wanted to get to town or that café, it was too much.**

**Once he made it to the school, he deposited his backpack in his homeroom and shook the water out of his too-long-for-a-boy's-and-bordering-on-girly- hair, pulling it behind his head. He waited for about five minutes, rubbing his hands together and trying to get feeling back into them. It was taking too long for the kid to show up- and he mentally scolded himself for the words. The kid was Toki, he had to remember that he actually had a name.**

**But he was also taking too long. It took a moment before he realized that he had not told him where to meet. With a huff, he makes his way towards the front and only entrance, nearly running him over in the process. He was used to looking for someone a bit taller, after all.**

"**Oh, there you a-" Skwisgaar stopped midsentence, disbelief flooding his features. "You've got to be kidding me."**

**Toki had obviously walked to the school in nothing but his T-shirt and shorts, all articles of clothing that were on his body soaked through. His little body was shaking with the cold, as it was snraining (the technical term for snow and rain mixing together) and his hair dripped onto his shoulders. The water darkened spots on his shoulders for a moment before disappearing, as the thin fabric could only hold so much water in one place. He held out the jacket, unworn and with an effort to have kept it dry, and water dripped off his arm to join the growing puddle that was forming around his feet.**

"**I let you borrow that 'cause- but you- you- why didn't- I-…" He was lost for words, and after living with his mother he had a snappy comeback for pretty much everything. Toki looked so…**

**Pathetic. Not the kind of pathetic that you'd want to give a hug to, either, more like the kind that you'd rather view from a distance. Like a bum with no teeth, crazy and alone. But right now, he had a face full of it, those dead eyes staring up at him, begging him to just end the humiliation and take the coat.**

**But he couldn't. Once more disgust crept into his face and voice as he turned away, not wanting to deal with it.**

"**L-look, just keep the damn coat, alright? Jesus…" He called out to some deity he had only heard his mother's lovers call out to, those foreigners and the ones who called themselves "good Christian men." It had slipped out, and now he began to walk back to his class, appearing to worry about being late.**

**Soft squelches sounded after him, and Skwisgaar whipped his head around, confused. He was being followed, Toki half-jogging to keep up. Little footprints were made with every step, and he had tucked the black jacket under his arm for safety. Now getting a bit irritated, The older boy stopped and turned around, waiting for him to arrive within speaking distance.**

"**What are you doing?" It was an icily delivered question, and it came with a glare of annoyance. He didn't want to deal with this kid.**

"**Your coat. I'm giving it back, like you said." The words could barely be heard over the din of the halls, and Skwisgaar's frown became much more pronounced. Toki seemed to cower even more, holding out the ploy-fleece like an offering. With a roll of his eyes, the Swedish boy turned on his heel and walked away, curling and uncurling his fists, for he did not want to be seen with him any more. He was already a social outcast with his accent, but he wasn't so desperate he was going to try to make friends with a **_**first grader. **_

**The ten minutes before the bell rang were going quickly as Skwisgaar made his way to his class, fuming in his own little world. He plopped himself into his desk, ignoring the giggles around him- except when he noticed a form much too small to be in a seventh-grade classroom out of the corner of his eye.**

**The kid had followed him all the way into his classroom, and was standing like he didn't know what to do. Well, actually, he probably didn't, and had probably never even been on this side of the school before. He stood in the doorway, and then took one tentative step inside, leaving a small footprint on the carpet floor. He looked at it (or at least, seemed to- his hair was in his face again) and stepped back onto the tile, his hands twisting the jacket nervously.**

"**Odin…" With great hesitation, he got out of his seat to go talk to him once more. The only two times he had actually talked to him it was so awkward that it made him want to grab his guitar and play the blocky feeling out. So he stood before the kid, nearly twice his height and looked down his nose with as much disdain that a seventh-grader could muster.**

"**Seriously? What now?" Toki barely raised his eyes enough to look at the blond boy and very carefully held out the coat.**

"**I know I got it dirty and wet but I didn't mean to and you said to give it back so here." He said it all in one breath without actually looking at him, and the greatest eye roll ever seen was performed. Skwisgaar reached out and snatched the jacket, making the younger kid jump hard and immediately place his arms by his sides. With the most frustrated motions, he wrapped the material around the boy, a bit too tightly. **

"**Gak!" Toki stumbled and Skwisgaar stepped back, the boundary between carpet and tile solidified. He crossed his arms as he was stared at from all angles, but mostly from a pair of cold blue eyes that couldn't comprehend what had just happened. **

"**I said keep it, so you keep it." And he just nodded, and began to walk away. Skwisgaar huffed and went back to his seat, shivering slightly with the cold. He wanted to just disappear… The girls were laughing and for once more than ever he wanted a music player, to drown them out. His face was burning from embarrassment and awkwardness, but somewhere he couldn't see, he felt…**

**Sad. **

**But he wasn't going to make friends with a first grader. Seriously. He might need someone and his parents were quite obviously not taking care of him, but he wasn't going to have that responsibility put on him. He was nice to him twice, but it wasn't going any farther than this.**

**A/N: Toki is actually a third grader. Just saying.**


End file.
